


Mummy Dearest

by This_is_your_Heichou_speaking



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Character Death, Forced Feminization, Generally Insane Voldemort, M/M, Male Lactation, Mommy Issues, Mommy Kink, Murder, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Oral Sex, Pseudo-Incest, There's a fair bit of blood, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-17
Updated: 2020-08-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:41:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25949779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking/pseuds/This_is_your_Heichou_speaking
Summary: In the graveyard, when Harry is fourteen, he gives Voldemort life against his will. An obsession develops from there, and soon after Voldemort brings "his mother" home.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle Sr., Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort, Harry Potter/Tom Riddle/Tom Riddle Sr.
Comments: 81
Kudos: 491





	1. Before

**Author's Note:**

> Harry refers to Voldemort as *Voldemort* in his head, but calls him Tom out loud. Voldemort thinks of himself as *Tom* when he's with Harry.
> 
> The underage tag is just in case—Harry is probably around fifteen or sixteen, but his age is pretty much ambiguous.

He was so warm, so comfortable, so _safe_. His mother surrounded him in a cocoon, his soft skin keeping him hidden from the world whilst Voldemort rested inside him, so close to his heart. For the first time in as long as he could remember, Voldemort felt _loved_ —felt like somebody would put him first because of who he was and not because he ordered them to or terrified them into submission.  
  
He turned his face slowly, reveling in the slick slide of his mother's belly against his cheek. He breathed slowly and enjoyed that his mother had finally given up on trying to get away from him, lying still as he found comfort in him. But as they lay there, Voldemort found himself suddenly wondering if something was wrong. His mother lay still—too still, and Voldemort realised slowly he could no longer hear the steady _thump_ of his heart no matter how hard he pressed his face into his mother's flesh. "Mother?" he called, his bald head pushing up higher so that it lay instead on his swollen breast. "Mother, I think something's wrong."  
  
He didn't answer.  
  
Panic gripped him. What was wrong with his mother? Why wouldn't he move, or speak? Why wouldn't he reassure his beloved son of his health, look at him and tell him that everything was okay? Wasn't that what he was _supposed_ to do? "Mother!" he growled, louder and more aggressive. He lifted his head away from his mother's warmth completely and shook him, fingers tight against his arms and nails sharp against his fragile skin.  
  
He shook and shook and shook, harder as still he didn't respond, until the queasy feeling in his stomach grew so strong he could not longer ignore it. The rapid movement of his arms slowed, and suddenly his eyes couldn't move away from the blank green of his mother's eyes. The black curls, uncombed and messy, pooled on the pillow around his head like a halo but he was dead dead dead de-  
  
But it was all wrong, all so _wrong_. His eyes were green but not the _right_ green, and his nose was the wrong shape all-together—too small, too narrow. His lips were full and red and painted but now that Voldemort looked he could swear they were the wrong shape also. He wanted to rage, to break, and as if by the force of his mind alone he heard the sharp _snap_ of the bitch 's wrist. How _dare_ this _slut_ , this _whore_ pretend to be his beloved, perfect mother. How dare she try to take the place of such an irreplaceable figure, taint the space where he was meant to reside?  
  
He moved away from the corpse, trembling with rage. Distantly, he supposed he was pleased that the dead body was not his actual mother's, but then again wasn't the it dead because of that very reason? Because he'd pretended to be something he wasn't, and couldn't handle the devoted force of Voldemort's love for his mother?  
  
He should feel glad that the whore had suffered for his inexcusable crimes, but all he felt was dirty. He'd let him hold Voldemort in a way only his mother should have, let the whore kiss him and take him into his soft, pliant body. If his mother ever found out, would he be mad? Would he refuse to speak to him, look at Voldemort in disgust and betrayal?  
  
He would rather watch the world burn than let that happen.  
  
In a sudden rush of desperation, he grabbed the corpse by its long, well-treated hair and dragged it off the bed. With single-minded purpose, he pulled its rather slight weight out of his room and into the hallway. "Nagini," he called anxiously. " _Nagini_!"  
  
She slithered down the dark hall only seconds later, her eyes yellow and eagerly set upon the still-bleeding whore.  
  
"Nagini, I have a present for you," he crooned at her, and she hissed her gratitude before she opened her mouth and unhinged her jaw wide.  
  
He didn't stay to watch her eat. Instead he turned, needing urgently to remove all evidence that he'd ever let another person into the rooms prepared for his mother. The sheets had to go, had to be _burnt_ , and the air cleared of the scent of the whore's heavy perfume. After he was destroying the evidence, Voldemort hurried into the bathroom and looked over his own face with horror.  
  
He was covered in that _thing_ , in another's _lifeblood_. Oh, his dear mother, how he would hurt if he saw him now. Voldemort wanted to rip his own face to shreds, but he couldn't let his mother find out—it was his own burden to bear, this betrayal. Shaking, he entered the bath and scrubbed until his finely scaled skin bled, and only after he was sure that not even a bloodhound would be able to scent the bitch on his skin did he leave the pink, bloody water.  
  
As he redressed and checked on Nagini, Voldemort wondered when his mother would finally come back to him and free him from this waiting.


	2. Upset

Harry watched silently as Voldemort stalked in, not once looking at him. The Dark Lord went straight to the wardrobe as if Harry wasn't even there, and though a few days earlier that was _all_ Harry could have asked for, now that he had it it was... not what he'd expected.   
  
He didn't want to admit it to himself, but Harry was _lonely_. He hated it here, but at least before Voldemort would still be there to speak to him. Now his days were all the same quiet, lonely hours spent trying to entertain himself. He couldn't help but remember when Voldemort would rush in happily, eyes only for Harry as he asked for his mother, and compare it to now.   
  
"Tom," he whispered. His voice sounded so shaky and weak under Voldemort's rustling in the wardrobe that he cringed, but Tom didn't react. He frowned, and hated himself for being so fragile as to be _afraid_ of raising his voice.   
  
"Tom," he called again, forcing himself to be louder. " _Tom_ ," and still the man did not react. He pulled himself out of the armoire, black material in his arms, and swiftly removed the robe he was wearing. Harry blinked, and only now realised they were soaked, nearly dripping with something red and thick.   
  
He shuddered, his eyes averting involuntarily as bare white skin was revealed, and swallowed hard. "Tom," he said again, his fingers crushing each other until they hurt where they tested in his lap. "I'm _sorry_ ," I won't do it again."   
  
The rustling stopped. He heard the hinges creak as Voldemort shut the wardrobe, and then bare feet shuffled against the floor until a tall shape, clothed in non-bloody black stood before him. He didn't look up.   
  
"Why are you sorry, mummy?" Voldemort asked. His voice was quiet and surprisingly vulnerable, but Harry's cheeks burned in anger. Why did he do this to him? What did he get out of changing Harry's body until it was some disgusting, _freakish_ thing? What did he gain from humiliating Harry like this, over and over every day until his chest was swollen and his thighs bruised and aching? Because Harry knew what was coming next, what would always come next for as long as Voldemort insisted on keeping up this twisted charade.   
  
He said it anyway. "I'm sorry- I'm sorry for speaking when we weren't alone," he answered. "I know... I know you don't like it when I don't speak Parseltongue in front of others." Voldemort stood still, and Harry could hear his own breath loud as a howling wind in his own ears. He waited, tensing as each slow second passed without change.   
  
And then Voldemort's bald white head was in his lap, lipless mouth touching his hands and crawling fingers sneaking up and under his robes to rest on the bare skin of his thigh. "Oh mummy," he said, kissing Harry's fingers as if they were the very air he breathed. "You know I don't like to be angry with you, you know I don't like to _hurt_ you mummy, but-" and he raised his head, his eyes still as scarlet as hellfire and his face still as fearsome as the visage that haunted him in his nightmares. "But," Lord Voldemort whispered, " _I only want what's best for you_."   
  
Harry shuddered, whether in fear or anger when he didn't know, but he forced a small smile onto his face. "I know," he replied, and put a hand on top of the man's head. He stroked it softly, knowing what was coming, and ran his fingers across the fine scales that covered muscle in lieu of skin. Voldemort smiled, the line of his mouth stretching into an ugly, curved slash across his face, and then he was nudging at Harry's chest, looking at him expectantly.   
  
Harry wanted to cry. It _hurt_ , and for days he'd both hated and desired the mouth that emptied his chest of milk. The build-up had ached so fiercely that Harry had eventually given in and tried to massage the fluid out himself, but it had hurt too much. Now that Voldemort was so easily asking him for it, he couldn't help but feel glad, _grateful_ , and that knowledge burned at his pride.   
  
Nevertheless he reached up and parted the fold of his robes. As soon as the pink, swollen nipple was exposed to air, Voldemort wasted no time before he was suckling at it desperately.   
  
He sighed as the ache eased, his fingers stroking down the scalp and to the nape as Voldemort licked and sucked hard. It still hurt, but it felt so unbelievably _good_ to have the pressure ease that he nearly teared up from the feeling. He wanted to hate it, wanted it to feel like the terrible thing it was, but instead he found himself flushing pink as his body relaxed, and little pinpricks of pleasure started to run down his nerves.   
  
He gasped when Voldemort's wrist brushed against his lap then, and he _felt_ the slow smirk that spread across the Dark Lord's face in reply.   
  
"Oh _mother_ ," he said slyly. "If you wanted me so badly, you needed only to _ask_."   
  
Harry wondered if this was hell.


	3. Death

The man sidled up to him while he was reading.  
  
It had been a fairly relaxed afternoon. Voldemort had been fairly busy, which meant Harry had been left pretty much to his own devices. It put him in a good mood, made him forget the phantom pains that ran up his legs, but seeing his jailer's face always put a damper on things.   
  
So he stayed, not moving from where he lounged on the bed reading his book as Voldemort neared. He slid onto the floor near the foot of the bed, for once not feeling the need to fill the silence with inane chatter. At least there was something to be grateful for.   
  
They sat like that a while, but though Harry would prefer if he could just pretend Voldemort wasn't there, instead he became increasingly aware of his breathing as he tried to read. It sounded louder and louder, especially as Voldemort may as well have not been breathing at all for all the noise he made.   
  
And so he tensed, becoming increasingly uncomfortable until a pale, thin hand landed feather soft on the hem of his robe and started to slide it up his leg. He froze, his book lowering as the fabric was raised until he could see Voldemort over the top of the pages. The Dark Lord was focused on the skin, his face surprisingly close to Harry's legs from where he still sat on the floor.   
  
It was odd, Harry decided as the hem reached his knee. Strange, because his 'son' usually had no patience, no desire to wait. It was usually just a matter of entering the room and baring Harry's chest, but today—   
  
Today.   
  
Was he forgetting something? An event, a birthday or anniversary? He tried, briefly, to remember, but the fact was he had no calendar to go by. It didn't matter either way. And it annoyed him that Voldemort would act like this, for whatever reason his mind had conjured, and perhaps even expect Harry to know why when _he_ was the very reason Harry was kept uninformed and helpless like this.   
  
Voldemort reached to kiss at Harry's calf, and Harry stopped him with a foot to the face.   
  
It wasn't a kick, not really. Harry would have liked to kick him properly, but he wasn't quite bold (or stupid) enough to do that. Instead he just pushed with enough strength to show his disapproval, but not enough to hurt in any capacity.   
  
Voldemort stilled, looking at him as Harry looked back. His foot was pale from all the time spent indoors, but next to Voldemort's deathly pallor he may as well have been tanned and golden. He pushed some more, and Voldemort's head turned slightly to the side. He sighed.   
  
"Mother," he murmured, hand reaching up to curl fingers around his ankle. Harry tried to push at his face again, this time harder, but the grip was quite strong. He only shifted a few millimetres, perhaps.   
  
Voldemort sighed again, but Harry's face didn't change. He just kept staring, both wanting to scream as always but also tired, as he had been for days. There was no point to this—Harry couldn't even run anymore, could never escape even if the door was left wide open. All he could do was wander slowly around his bedroom—a fast walk would make the pain lance up his legs like knives at his bones, and if he attempted even a light jog Harry would collapse within a few metres.   
  
He knew. He'd tried.   
  
The white, bald head turned and the red eyes closed, and Harry watched dispassionately as Voldemort kissed softly at the skin above his ankle. "Mother," he murmured again, but seemed content to stay like he was for a while longer. A sharp impatience coursed through Harry at the man's relaxed countenance, and he ripped his leg out of the firm grasp and back towards himself. Voldemort's red, red eyes flew back open in surprise, but Harry didn't care as he wrapped his arms around his knees and turned his face away.   
  
There was a quiet praise, and then rustling as Voldemort sat down next to him. For someone so monstrous and snakelike, he felt quite warm as he sat with his chest almost touching Harry's arm, but what Harry really focused on was the soft breath on his ear.   
  
Yes, he supposed he could hear it _now_.   
  
"Oh dear," Voldemort said, his voice low, and then his arm was wrapping around Harry's shoulders as his face pushed into his neck.   
  
"I said I was sorry, didn't I mother?" he whined. Harry almost cringed, because it sounded _exactly_ like a whine, but he suppressed it. There was another pause, and then, "come mother," and the second arm slid under his knees without permission. "It's a special day."   
  
"What!" Harry exclaimed, and even he would be hard-pressed to say what he meant. But Voldemort didn't pause and strode quickly towards the bathroom, the hot water turned on and almost overflowing. Voldemort set him down, and as Harry loosened his involuntary grasp around the neck to stand for himself, the man dropped to his knees and pulled off Harry's robe in one fell swoop, leaving him naked.   
  
"What?" he cried again, but was ignored as Voldemort picked him up and set him gently into the waiting bath.   
  
He gasped without meaning to, and the man's eyes softened imperceptibly. "It's a _special_ day, mother," he told him again. "I want you to look _beautiful_."   
  
He didn't answer any of Harry's questions then, and picked up the cloth to start wiping at him. "I can wash myself!" Harry grumbled, but Voldemort just smiled at him.   
  
"Of course mother," he said tenderly as he raised Harry's arms and legs out of the water one by one. "But I just want to _please_ you." And he bent his head to lay a kiss on Harry's thigh.   
  
He washed Harry's back next, and when he got around to the chest his eyes clouded over as he watched stray, milky drops slide across his skin. He rubbed at Harry's stomach, and without warning leant forward to lick at his nipple.   
  
Not that Harry needed warning.   
  
In no time the lapping had become sucking, and Harry tried to keep quiet as Voldemort still washed him, his hand sliding over Harry's cock and down further between his legs. He pulled and pulled, his mouth a fierce suction, and it was all Harry could do not to cry out.   
  
He _did_ cry out when Voldemort let go though, and then he effortlessly pulled Harry out of the bath to lean him over the edge of the tub. There was no preparation but the slick, questing fingers aiming to lube him up before Voldemort was fucking him, and Harry was watching the water drain as it got further and further from his panting face. Voldemort pushed into him like he was possessed, the loud _thwack_ of their skin echoing in the cool bathroom.   
  
They left when Voldemort was sated and Harry dressed in a regal, beautiful robe. He was relaxed—though he wished he could claim otherwise, and feeling strangely fond as his apparent son pressed kisses into his hair at every chance he got. He didn't feel so bad, until they reached the room wherein stood Voldemort's self-made 'throne'. He froze, his eyes widening in horror and his skin going cold as his eyes settled on the vaguely human shapes strung up before the large, ornate chair.   
  
Voldemort didn't seem to notice Harry wasn't walking if his own volition anymore, dragging him behind him like a puppet. He settled himself into his 'throne' and then pulled Harry to sit on his lap, his arms tight around Harry's waist in a way that would be loving if it wasn't to _control_. The man was smiling against his ear, Harry could feel it, but it wasn't so much fondness he felt now as utter disgust.   
  
There were two human bodies before him. He wouldn't have recognised them, except one had hair that was obviously bright red even through the dirt and blood, and the other watched him with cold, dead, brown eyes. Eyes that had once shone bright and kind.   
  
"Oh," came out of his mouth, and he wanted to burn something. He wanted to burn _himself_.   
  
"Isn't it fantastic," Lord Voldemort enthused. His arms tightened around Harry's waist in warning, but he felt so far away, so numb.   
  
"I see," he whispered. It all felt too little.


	4. Angry

He sighed as he watched the Dark Lord speak to his faithful, locked away like a fucking damsel in a tower. He felt helpless, and probably what irked him most about his situation was that he'd never been _more_ helpless.   
  
Voldemort spoke grand words and waved his arms like a leader in front of his cult—an apt comparison, Harry mused—but though ordinarily Harry would pay close attention to the man's words in hopes of divining his plans, he now felt a bleak hopelessness creep in. What was the point, he thought to himself as he crossed his arms on the balcony. What good would it do to gather information if he couldn't actually _do_ anything with it?   
  
As he watched, mind flitting from thought to thought like a bee among flowers, he noticed one of the black-cloaked figures pushing nearer and nearer to Voldemort. She was masked, but from her wild black hair and the way she pushed her ample bosom out invitingly, there was no doubt as to who she was. Harry watched the revolting display silently and, unbidden, felt a twinge of irritation. What was the monster doing, fucking Harry and feminising him and keeping him locked in his bedroom if there was a willing, _female_ volunteer _literally_ pushing her breasts at him?   
  
_And_ , Harry added to himself, Voldemort didn't seem all too _bothered_ by the bitch's advances either. So much for his apparent 'undying' fidelity. By the way he waxed poetic about Harry's hair and eyes and sweet _fucking_ hands and goddamned soft breasts, you'd think he wouldn't have the _time_ to fuck his whores but here he was, proving Harry wrong.   
  
He huffed, louder than he'd intended perhaps but what did it matter when it went unnoticed? Voldemort continued his preaching, loudly inviting his followers to help him 'cleanse' the world, and Harry turned with a disgusted scoff to walk back into his room.   
  
The Dark Lord came in a long while later, but the time had done nothing to ease Harry's ire. He turned about the room without giving the man any attention, loosening his hair and taking out his nightclothes, washing his face and folding the edge of the bedsheets up in preparation for the night. Voldemort called at him, his voice becoming more and more impatient, but Harry just couldn't find it in himself to care. He slid into bed, and when Voldemort lay down next to him to nudge at his chest pointedly, he turned to face the other way.   
  
Suddenly the silence was loud. His movements had kept his mind off it, filled the space with rustling and banging and half-stomped footsteps, but now there was nothing except his quiet breathing and Voldemort's uncomfortable shifting. The man— _monster_ —was a surprisingly warm weight against his back, and Harry had almost fallen asleep when the quiet voice spoke up.   
  
"Mother?" Voldemort murmured, his lipless mouth gliding hungrily over the shape of Harry's exposed neck. "Mother, I _need_ it."   
  
Perhaps it was all the passive-aggressive moving around he'd done earlier, or more likely the fact that Harry was no longer fully awake. But where before he might have pushed the Dark Lord away, he now sighed as if heavily disappointed. "Look at you," he whispered, as if truly saddened. "Here I am, hurt and angry and all you can think of is _yourself_."   
  
Voldemort was quiet, but Harry could feel the breaths against his skin speed up as he became upset. Harry didn't care. "Don't bother asking me why, or apologise for being a bad son. What does it matter that I am disappointed? What does it matter when you've wounded my heart? You claim to love me, _Tommy_ , but we both know that's a lie."   
  
"It's not!" Voldemort burst out, sitting up a little. He sounded so innocent, so heartbroken. It made Harry feel a strange sort of _pleasure_ inside. The man's body was stiff against his now, but Harry did not move or even open his eyes. "I _love_ you mummy," Voldemort was telling him passionately, his hands petting at Harry's arms and stomach. "Just tell me what's wrong, I'll _fix_ it!"   
  
Harry smiled then, not able to quieten the angry satisfaction inside him. He did not flinch when he said, "you can't fix a bad son, Tom."   
  
There was wet against his shoulder-blades. Voldemort was shaking, and Harry wondered incredulously for a second if it was real. Was Voldemort _really_ crying? Had he, Harry Potter, _really_ made the Dark Lord _weep_? He'd never felt so powerful, so vindicated. It was a high unlike any he'd ever felt, and Harry lost himself in it as he turned onto his back slowly   
  
Voldemort's noseless face pushed against his chest now, his mouth moving against the mounds of Harry's chest even as he continued to sob, as if it was instinct. And perhaps it _was_ instinct, a result of his _real_ mother abandoning him. A leftover, unfulfilled need.

  
Harry stroked the back of his head, softly shushing him as the man calmed. "Oh Tom," he murmured. "If it pains you to hear it then perhaps you shouldn't hurt your dear mother so."   
  
"I'm sorry mother," Voldemort whined immediately, hiccuping slightly. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry, please mummy," and he nudged tearfully at Harry's chest again.   
  
He wanted to say no, wanted to shake his head in regret, turn and let Voldemort stew in his self-inflicted despair, but no. Too much at once was never a good idea. He'd let it pass this time, but oh, Harry would no longer be the victim if it killed him. Maybe he couldn't run, and maybe he couldn't live the life he'd always wanted. But by Merlin he would do what he could, and Voldemort would follow willingly.   
  
He huffed softly and quirked his eyebrows in a reluctant grimace. "If you insist," he whispered, and let Voldemort unbutton the top of the thin nightgown he wore. As soon as the cloth was parted the Dark Lord latched onto the rosy nipple like a man starved and _sucked_ , and Harry couldn't help the whimper that escaped. But he didn't pet Voldemort's head and didn't say a word, and when Voldemort was done he didn't even bother redoing the buttons before he turned away again, controlling the need to smile at the disheartened sniffle.   
  
It was the sweetest night he'd had in a long, long while.


	5. Family

His chest burned with excitement as he settled the father down, telling him sternly to sit still and _wait_ , "I've got a surprise for you, you'll _love_ it!"   
  
His father, face so like his son's had once been, looked oddly resigned. He seemed tired, but Tom thought that was ridiculous. After all, he'd slept for _years_ waiting for his darling wife. Why would he be tired?   
  
He hurried to the door, turning at the last minute to remind his father to _stay_ , and went into the next room.   
  
His dearest mother remained where Tom had sat him down, waiting ever-patiently for his return. He looked up as Tom walked in, and his eyes were so pretty and green, his lips so sweetly pink, that Tom wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees and _worship him_. His mouth watered in desire, but he shook his head. If ever there was a time to resist, it was now. His mother had someone important to see, after all.   
  
He gently took both of his mother's hands in his own and tugged. "Come, mummy. I want you to meet someone," he said, and lead the way back. "I know you've missed him," he said as they walked. "I’ve kept him safe for you, so that we could be a real, happy family when I finally found you!" And then he was opening the door.   
  
His father stood as Tom opened the door, but although he was disobeying him it didn't matter for now. What mattered was the way the man's eyes wandered over the slim, perfect form of his mother—the way they darkened in desire as they followed every shape, every curve of his mother's barely-covered body.   
  
"Father," he said huskily, his fingers tightening on the limp hand in his. "Look." And he pulled his mother to stand before him, resting his chin on black curls and trailing a hand down the sheerly-clad waist. His mother shivered, so Tom wrapped his arm fully around his waist, wondering if he was cold. "Introduce yourself, mummy," he whispered in the fragile ear, and for a second it looked like he was going to cry again.   
  
But he didn't, and instead out his hand on Tom's, which rested on his abdomen. "Hello," he said, and his voice was hoarse. "I am Tom's mother."   
  
He said nothing else, but he didn't need to. Tom Riddle Sr stepped forward, his eyebrows pulled together in a heavy frown as he approached. He opened his mouth to say something, but seemed to think better of it at the last minute. Instead he looked at Tom, as if asking for guidance, and Tom gave it to him. "introduce yourself, father," he said, and though his mother let out a long whine he didn't look away from the cold blue gaze of his parent.   
  
The man sighed, then licked his lips, looking from his wife to Tom unsurely. Then, seeming to come to a decision he extended his hand and said, "my name is Tom Riddle, and I am Tom's father."   
  
His mother seemed frozen, and Tom clicked his tongue. "No, no," he said, irritated. "He's your _wife_ , my _mother_. Don't you love him? Haven't you missed him?" He stepped back, letting go of his mother. "Greet him properly," he ordered, and lowered his hand to gently caress the handle of his wand.   
  
The man swallowed, looking back at his wife nervously. Then, presumably remembering how much he loved Tom's mother, his eyes softened and he cupped the soft cheek in his large palm. They stared at each other, but before Tom could grow impatient his father had leaned down and kissed his mother full on the lips.   
  
He jerked as if his husband's kiss had been unexpected, but then eased into it. Tom watched gleefully as his father's hand dropped to his mother's waist, caressing there whilst his mother threaded his fingers through his husband's hair like he'd missed him terribly, like he'd never let him go.   
  
Tom smirked as he sat himself down in a nearby chair, leaning back and steepling his fingers together. When his father pulled away from the kiss to look at him he cocked his head to the side questioningly. "What's wrong father? You're all alone together and there's a bed right there." He gestured. "Don't you want to show your wife how much you missed him?"   
  


* * *

  
  
They'd been reluctant at first, but now his father was fully taking advantage of the situation. Tom knew right from the start that his father wanted his mother—the look in his eyes could not have been mistaken as anything else, but he'd been worried about his dearest mummy. Tom knew he was shy, modest, easily embarrassed. He'd been worried that his mother wouldn't be quite so easily pleased, or rather would not let go of his inhibitions quite so easily.   
  
And yet, as the smooth, flawless body of his mother stretched across the bed, he realised all his worrying had all been for naught. His father held mummy's thighs apart, thrusting between them like it would be his salvation, and all Tom could focus on was the flush that heated his mother's pale skin until it was pink and red, the fingers that gripped broad shoulders desperately, the small and reluctant moans that escaped his mother's mouth in gasps with every push of his father's cock into the pliant body.   
  
Tom was entranced by this, the beautiful image his mother made as his father fucked him the way he had when he'd put Tom inside his mother's womb. He couldn't look away from the slick pink cock disappearing between smooth thighs and back, again and again until it filled Tom's head completely. He felt like he was burning, and his own cock was so hard that—when he touched it—he couldn't help but hiss, for it hurt a little more than he'd expected.   
  
But he spit on his hand and grasped it more firmly, slowly rubbing up and down and getting faster as his mother got louder and closer to his orgasm. His tits were swollen red and begging for attention, but when his father leaned down to take them in his mouth Tom froze.   
  
"Stop!" He shouted rather suddenly, angry that his father would even _try_. "Don't you dare. You can touch, but you can't drink. _That_ is just for _me_ ," and he stood up, walking closer to make his point. He didn't care that his cock still hung out of his robe, or that his mother looked like he'd scream if he wasn't fucked right now. All he cared about was that his father knew the limits, the boundaries he wasn't allowed to cross. He trailed a finger across his mother's nipple, collecting a sweet drop of milk that he then sucked off, eyes firmly on his father. " _That_. Is just. For _me_ ," he said again, quietly, and then stepped back.   
  
His father didn't waste time in resuming his rhythm and Tom was glad for at least that. His mother's mouth hung open and panting, cheeks pink and brows furrowed in pleasure as he lost himself, and Tom wanted nothing more than to slide his cock into that beautiful, open mouth. His mother seemed to be _begging_ him for his cock, his lips parted so very invitingly, but Tom held himself back. After all, it was the first time his parents had seen each other in _years_ —they deserved at least this without Tom interfering. He wasn't _that_ greedy for his mother's love—he could let them have this, at least.   
  
And yet, as he watched and pulled on his erection, a strange dissatisfaction grew in his chest. At first he couldn't understand what it was, but then a streak of wetness dripped from his mother's eyes and Tom _knew_ , like only a son could.   
  
"Kiss him," he exclaimed, his hand moving ever-faster as he neared his climax. " _Kiss him!_ "   
  
Father leaned down to press his lips to mummy's, and Tom came all over them.


	6. Three

The room was hot, even though it was the middle of December. If Harry looked outside he could see the white frost covering grass and trees and window panes, but inside he was sweating despite being naked.  
  
"Oh honey," Tom Sr was murmuring. They'd been at this for a while, him pushing slowly in and out and coming inside until Harry was a sloppy, riled up mess. He could hear the soft squelch every time his lover thrust in, could hear Tom's every breath as it huffed over his hair. He wanted to cry, but then again he'd already done that—Tom had neither sped up not slowed down, no matter how he begged.  
  
His body felt electrified, like the slightest touch could send him hurtling over the edge, and yet Tom Sr knew exactly how to keep him on the precipice. He wanted to come so badly, so _desperately_ , but he couldn't find it in himself to ask anymore. It wasn't like Tom Sr would listen. So instead he pushed his head down and arched his back, sliding up onto Tom's dick so that the man laughed low in his throat and pulled at his hair.  
  
"You're so pretty _mummy_ ," he teased, and pushed a hand down to brush against his left nipple. The reaction was almost immediate—Harry whined, loud, and spread his legs some more.  
  
"Please, _please_ ," he chanted, but Tom Riddle Sr only ran a calming hand down his side, shushing him. And then—  
  
Harry's head snapped up as the bedroom door creaked open. His eyes widened, half in horror and half in reluctant interest. Voldemort stood there, his face strangely unreadable. Harry felt horrified, humiliated—it was one thing for the father to see him this helpless, it was another altogether for the son to. He wanted to hide his face, hide his body, but then Tom Sr stopped moving altogether and Harry wanted to _cry_ —  
  
Yet there were hands on his face, stroking his hair back as soft kisses were laid on his brow, and Voldemort crowded close to him as he pushed Harry upright to lean against Tom's broad chest. It made the cock inside his shift to a different angle, and it was all Harry could do not to start begging again. He shifted, trying to fuck himself down in his new position, but Tom's hands were warm and strong on his hips and, more importantly, they stopped any movement no matter how his tired legs tried.  
  
"Shh, shh," his 'son' murmured, lips against the skin of his neck. "He's mean, isn't he mummy. He's taken and taken and not _once_ let you come. But I'm here now," and he kissed Harry's eyelids gently. The damp eyelashes, wet and spiky with tears, brushed against his chin in cool caresses, but Harry could only focus on Voldemort's hands trailing up towards his chest.  
  
He groaned, "oh _please_ Tom, _please_ ," and the man smiled at him like he'd never seen anything so bewitching in his entire life. Without warning Tom Sr started pushing in again, faster now that Harry had calmed down some, and the man in front of him leant down to lay a kiss on his thigh.  
  
"I love you so much mother," Voldemort said, biting and sucking until the soft skin there bruised red. "I love you so much," he said again, "that I'm going to fill you up with it." And without hesitation he stuck a finger into Harry's arse.  
  
Tom Sr groaned at the feeling, pushing in hard and pausing with the head of his cock against Harry's prostate, but one look from his son and he was moving again. Voldemort smiled up at Harry, licking the head of his cock affectionately as he crooked his finger this way and that. "Oh dear," he murmured, his brow creased in faux concern. "Mother dearest, you're so loose I don't think you can come like that anymore."  
  
"W-what?" Harry managed to gasp out. A strange feeling of dread trickled down his spine, and the determined expression on Voldemort's face did nothing to ease his apprehension.  
  
"Yes," Voldemort continued as if Harry hadn't said a word. He straightened back up and hooked his hands under Harry's thighs. "You need more than just one cock to satisfy you now, don't you mummy?"  
  
Harry inhaled sharply. "Tom _no—_ " he tried to shout, but before he could even take a fortifying breath Voldemort was plunging in alongside his father and Harry _screamed_.  
  
All he could see was Voldemort's red, red eyes and his smug smile and he ached, ached like he was too full. He felt like was going to burst with the push inside him, but it felt so goddamn _good_ that he wondered if he wouldn't just lose his mind from the intensity of it. How had he not just come yet?  
  
He pushed impatiently onto the cocks inside him until Tom Sr grabbed him by the hips and pushed _down_. "Oh look at that," he commented idly as Harry's eyes rolled back. "You're so loose that he slipped in as easily as if you had a _real_ cunt. And oh, look at you," he crooned as he reached up to pinch Harry's nipple. "You're absolutely _gagging_ for it, aren't you?"  
  
Somewhere in the back of his mind Harry thought that he should be upset, perhaps offended, but Voldemort was suckling up the drop of milk that had leaked and oh, Harry had _two_ cocks inside of him. As they began to move, all Harry could hear was the loud slide as the cum already inside him was pushed out, and Harry had never felt as simultaneously appreciated and humiliated as he did then.  
  
"Mother, mother," Voldemort was whispering with every thrust of his hips. He sounded mad, like a devotee given permission to finally touch the object of their obsession. Like a demon able to fully defile to their heart's desire for the first time.  
  
It felt like he was burning. The two cocks inside rubbed against him constantly, pushed against his swollen prostate continuously until Harry wondered how one person could feel this much pleasure and not just _die_. "Legs wider, dear _wife_ ," Tom Sr commanded. And it was a command, though the tone it was delivered in seemed soft. Distantly Harry wondered how he'd ever let Tom Riddle Sr get this power over him, how he'd let himself be fooled into thinking the man wasn't just as evil and depraved as his son, but what did it matter?  
  
He spread his legs wider.  
  
Tom Sr made a pleased sound in his throat and sped up even more, until Harry was moaning a continuous _oh, oh, oh_ with every thrust. He was sweating even in the cold air, and as Voldemort leaned down to latch onto his nipples he realised his lovers were too. The mouth sucking the milk from him was so warm, so wet, and then it was sharp as Voldemort _bit_ and Harry was _coming_ —  
  
But they wouldn't _stop_. He was sore and so very tired. His entire body felt like a huge ball of _sensation,_ a strangely potent mixture of pain-pleasure rushing through his nerves until he could barely tell which way was up and which way was down, but still they wouldn't _stop_.  
  
Tom Sr was laughing again, his _husband_ was laughing again, pulling Harry's head back sharply to kiss and bite at his lips until they were puffy. " _Fuck_ , Harry," he moaned appreciatively. "Look at you, you love this don't you."  
  
And Harry was crying _please, please_ , but was he asking them to stop or never stop? Tom Sr came inside him, going rigid even as his son continued to pump in and out of him as if he were a toy and immediately slid out. He pulled Harry around, and Harry let himself be maneuvered like a puppet onto his hands and knees.  
  
"Clean me up, love," Tom Sr told him gently, and Harry could only let him use his mouth as he pleased. The taste was bitter, but the only thing running through his mind was how _that_ had just been inside _him_ , and perhaps how he just wanted Voldemort to _come_ already. He tried, desperately, to tighten his arse around the man's cock, but only succeeded in eliciting a delighted, surprisingly childish laugh.  
  
"Oh mummy, didn't I tell you that your cunt was too loose for that?" And then, suddenly impatient, he pulled Harry off his father's dick and onto his back. His fingers were harsh, but the look on his face was tender as he pinched Harry's nipple. A drop of white, thin milk beaded onto the tip of the pink mound and Voldemort watched, entranced, as it grew bigger and bigger until Harry was gasping. When finally he seemed it big enough, the little pink tip of Voldemort's tongue slid from between his lips and, looking into Harry's eyes all the while, the man swept it off.  
  
"It's like _ambrosia_ mother," he moaned. "I needed it, and I couldn't get it when you were facing away from me."  
  
"Yes," Tom Sr hummed, running a hand through Harry's hair. His wet cock lay against Harry's cheek, but he didn't seem to mind. "Let your son suck on your tits, love." The look in his eyes was depraved, the smirk salacious despite the number of times Harry had stated his needs tonight. Harry knew exactly what he meant, and he also knew that he'd never get any reprieve until he did as Tom Sr meant for him to.  
  
So even though he felt like he'd break from the intensity of all the feelings running through him, and even though the exhaustion pushed down his muscles with its weight, he stroked Voldemort's cheek and said "suck on mummy's breasts, baby," and Voldemort came.


	7. Murder

His hands still felt like they were stained with his father's blood.

Logically he knew he'd washed it off, but the feeling remained, and every time he spent alone he remembered the hot wetness of his father's life leaking through his fingers. It wasn't guilt that made him feel this way.

He had thought it would be, in some part of his mind. Thought that, perhaps, he still held on to the desire for a full family, a _normal_ family, but he knew better than that now. He didn't need anyone except his mother, and to think otherwise had been folly. After all, though he'd wanted parents, though he'd wanted his mother and father to _love_ one another, he hadn't quite expected how close they would get.

He hadn't foreseen the feelings of abandonment that would come with his mother's attention straying from him. But what a fool he was, to overlook something so obvious. He'd been so blind and sure in his mother's affections, he'd forgotten the effect of a _cock_ in him.

So of course, Tom only did what he had to do. Nobody could take his place in his mummy's life, not even his own father.

* * *

Harry didn't know why he'd expected anything else. He knew Voldemort, knew the things he was capable off, and if he'd murdered his own uncle and grandparents then why wouldn't he murder his father now, years later, when he'd finally grown tired of him?

Tom Sr hadn't seemed to notice it, but Harry _had_. He had taken note of the coolness in Voldemort's gaze, the dislike which grew between father and son, and yet still he hadn't foreseen this. Somehow, he'd missed the rage in Voldemort's black, shrivelled heart, and it had happened before he'd even realised what was going on.

Voldemort hadn't let Tom Sr die painlessly. He'd come upon them sitting together, talking together, and between one word and the next, Tom Sr was on the tiled floor and grasping desperately at his side.

There was red on his hands. All Harry could think about was bushy hair and cold blue eyes and dead smiles, but then Voldemort stepped into the room, and he dragged Harry's attention to him like a carriage behind a thestral.

"Mother," he said, his voice tinged with the sibilance of Parseltongue. "Leave."

"Tom?" he whispered, his gaze moving back to Tom Sr. The man still grasped at his side, gasping, his face pale. He stared at Voldemort with shock, then open rage as the reality of his situation caught up with him.

"Leave, mother," Voldemort said again, but he wasn't looking at Harry. His eyes were on his father, a grim sort of pleasure in the set of his mouth, like Tom Sr had given him exactly what he'd wanted.

"I won't." Harry said quietly, so quietly he wasn't even sure Voldemort had heard, except a course he had. His scarlet gaze turned to Harry, angry, and for a second Harry feared he'd made a mistake. But it was too late—Voldemort was striding towards him, reaching towards Harry and, when he flinched, towards his father's head. He grabbed the man by the hair, pulled him up so Harry was looking at his face and his pain.

"Did you love him so much, mummy?" he cried, looking betrayed. Tom Sr's blood was pooling around his bare feet, but Voldemort didn't seem to notice. "Do you want to stay for _him_?" Voldemort cried again.

Harry shook his head, still staring at the way red painted Voldemort's deathly pale skin. "No, of course not," he said. "But he's your father," he added, and though he tried to seem forceful or angry, he instead felt hopeless. Voldemort didn't care if Tom Sr was his father or not, and it was pointless of Harry to try and convince him.

Voldemort didn't reply. Instead, he looked down at Tom Sr, and reached towards his wound. "If you want to stay so badly," he said, "then you can watch." And, before Harry could say anything, he began to reach into the gash in Tom Sr's side.

The man tried to fight back, but his hands were tied up and behind his neck with barely a flick of Voldemort's wand. Harry watched, frozen, as he reached into his father and began to tear out whatever he could find. At first, Harry could see nothing but red and pink, but then he began to see _organs_ , dark and heavy. Voldemort's hands were clawed and vicious, and he kept pulling at Tom Sr's insides like he wanted to empty out his ribcage.

Like pulling the stuffing out of a doll, Harry thought, and then immediately felt sick.

He gasped, and turned away from the mess of Tom Sr's body—Tom, who must be dead by now. It stank so bad, the smell of hot blood so heavy in his nose and his mouth that it made him gag. But the moment he moved, Voldemort's gaze snapped back to him.

"No!" he shouted, and then was getting up to stride towards Harry again. "I asked you to leave, _you_ wanted to stay!" And he pulled at Harry's wrist, leaving marks of blood on Harry's skin and sleeve, pulling him closer to the body until the blood stained Harry's feet and the hem of his thin white robe.

"You have to look, mummy!" Voldemort shouted, and pushed him onto his knees. He crowded close behind Harry's back, pushing him down until his face was right over Tom Sr's, and then lifted up the back of his robe.

Harry began to tremble, his hands wet and his knees already aching on the tiled floor. He pleaded, quietly, "No Tom, stop it, _please_ ," but Voldemort did not stop. He grabbed onto Harry's arse, pulling it apart and sliding easily into his loose, warm hole. Tom Sr had fucked him just a while ago. His cum was still wet inside Harry, his blood slippery underneath him, so that every time Tom thrust Harry became afraid he'd fall.

"Tom," he gasped, his eyes wet not with grief, but horror. "Tom, _please_."

"You'll never love anyone but me, mother," Voldemort said to him, his cock so large inside Harry, his weight so heavy. All he could see was red, all he could smell was red, and he felt so full inside that he wanted to rip it all out.

"Say goodbye to your husband, mummy," Voldemort told him, suddenly gentle. He reached up to Harry's nipples, pressing the sharp edge of a nail into it, leaving red wherever he touched.

Later, after he'd come, Voldemort picked Harry up and took him to his bedroom. There he cleaned Harry up, put him in new clothes, lay him in bed. He spent the night at Harry's chest, suckling whilst he slept and keeping Harry on the edge of uncomfortable sleep, even as Harry grew exhausted.

The next morning he was nowhere to be found, but had left a beautiful black dress for Harry to wear.

It was heavy and dark and frilly, and for a second, Harry considered not wearing it. But he felt exhausted, felt too tired and too fragile to test Voldemort, or to play mind games with him.

He put on the dress—mourning clothes, and even slipped on the veil Voldemort had left. It was sheer and thin and long, and slipped over his head and past his shoulders. Then Harry left the room, down the hill and past the gates, to the graveyard where this entire twisted play had begun so long ago.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a repost of the original Mummy dearest fic, which was a collaborative effort. These are only the bits I wrote—edited and added to.


End file.
